


The did this really happen Affair

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Anglo-Irish Relations, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Ireland, Irish Language, Spies & Secret Agents, Supernatural Elements, THRUSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 11:35:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13997451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: Napoleon and Illya must work with a contentious British agent while on assignment in Ireland. Strange goings on occur as they try to prevent TRHUSH recruiting from the ranks of the I.R.A.





	The did this really happen Affair

It was an overcast damp day, typical for the Emerald Isle, when Napoleon Solo pulled up the rental car beside the ruins of a small chapel located in county Limerick. The remains of the church were surrounded by the lichen covered headstones in an old graveyard and had a strangely peaceful feeling to it.

He stepped out, wearing a tan raincoat, slowly approaching the grounds, but first climbing over a low stone wall, recalling they seemed to cross all of Ireland like the roots of a tree, linking the country together in a great green puzzle. Forty shades of green, one of the locals called it.

Many of these walls had been erected during a tragic period in Irish history, the years of of starvation in the mid to late 1800’s when the potato crops failed. They were  famine walls, and were built during the ‘ _Great Hunger’_ as it was called. They were a means to keep the starving masses out of the estates of the English landowners.

Ironically it was the homeless, evicted from their squalid cottages by their heartless landlords who built these walls for a few scraps to eat. Massive work projects like the Famine walls and the Famine roads barely kept the populace alive during the years the crops failed, as well as during the subsequent famines that were to follow.

Apparently there had been plenty of grain crops grown in the county to feed the unfortunate people, but instead doling it out in a humanitarian effort, it  was exported for sale. There were those landlords who did try to help their tenants, but apparently they were in the minority.

The building of these walls and roads were akin to being a public works scheme, intended to build unnecessary structures just so the poor were forced to work for sustenance and not be given charity. This was among the litany of facts that Illya filled him in with during the flight from Heathrow to Shannon airport.

Napoleon chuckled as he fingered the little green rabbit’s foot keychain his partner had bought him in the duty-free shop at the airport,  knowing the American had an affinity for good luck charms.

.

 

Solo navigated carefully among the graves, some dating as far back to the 1700’s, when he spotted his contact, an agent named Owen Smythe who worked out of the London office of UNCLE.  

He was here operating in Ireland under the cover name of Peadar Beag O’Malley. It was an appropriate name as _Peadar Beag_  translated to _little Peter_ , and Smythe was certainly that. Napoleon had dealings with the man before and had little like for him.

He was short, _very_ short, just barely over five feet tall and had a major chip on his shoulder because of his height.  Illya wasn’t a tall man either, and was a little sensitive about it at times, but never nasty like this fellow.

Owen was waiting just inside the barely upright walls of the church and was wearing an oddly shaped hat, a long jacket, a waistcoat and breeches of all things, making him look like the stereotypical image of a leprechaun. Though he was far from that, as he was a mole for the organization, working from within _Sinn Féin_ , the political wing of the Irish Republican Army, better known as the I.R.A..

It seemed THRUSH had been nosing around some of their people, looking to recruit them. Smythe, being the dutiful agent that he was, contacted Harry Beldon in London. He was always sidling up to the Continental Chief, in one way or another.

He was not a happy camper when he found out Solo and his partner were being sent to steal his thunder.  

They had just finished an assignment in Manchester and barely had time to change their clothing before they boarded the flight at Heathrow and arrived at the just a little over an hour later at the airport on the Southwest coast of Ireland, just outside the city of Limerick.

“So Owen what gives with the get up? It’s not Halloween,” Napoleon chuckled.

“Ah feck you Solo, I’m helping out with a pageant at the local school later today, and I had to dress like this. Seems your ridiculous American traditions for St. Patrick’s Day have come full circle and infected Ireland. You do recall that my cover is a school custodian?”

“Take it easy, no need to get all bothered about it,” Napoleon had to force himself not to laugh.

“So where’s that sour-puss partner of yours, not hiding in your shadow is he?” Smythe craned his neck to see if the Russian was standing behind the American.

Napoleon sneered at him, not liking his tone now at all.

“He’s around here somewhere, and mind your mouth as he has an aversion to _little_ people... I think he calls them _Leshy_ in Russian.

“Always the smart mouth Napoleon. I bet he’s not even here, and is probably off with his nose buried in a book somewhere. It’s amazing Waverly paired you with him, he’s such know-it-all, and likes to show off, always acting so intellectually superior. Surprised he hasn’t gotten you killed with one of those damned bombs of his. He is the epitome of a mad Russian bomber.”

“And _he_ is here”, Illya said, stepping out from around the corner of the church.  They are not _Leshy_ , who are more like the Irish _Pookas_ and can shapeshift. I think Napoleon, you are referring to the _Domoval_ who are house spirits. They can be most helpful...or quite _annoying_. He stared directly at Smythe as he said that.  The rest of the man’s insults, he chose to ignore.

There was no love lost between Illya Kuryakin and Owen Smythe, as they had a falling out when Illya was stationed in London headquarters. The Russian, at the time, was basically Harry Beldon’s protege and the Brit resented it.

Publicly, nothing ever came of it other than pointed barbs being launched at each other. Illya had a mistrust of Owen as there had been many a time the man had tried to set him up for failure by making important paperwork disappear, or altering reports. Luckily, being Beldon’s favorite did have it’s advantages at times, as Harry chose to ignore the mishaps.  When all was said and done, Illya was relieved when he was transferred to New York, distancing him away from both men.

Besides having to deal with the London agent,  Illya was not happy about this little milk run as he called it. The assignment he and Napoleon just finished had taken its toll on him. He was sporting quite a few colorful, and painful bruises and lacerations thanks to a now deceased THRUSH agent.  For once he just wanted to go home to New York, to his own bed, listen to his jazz albums while he nursed a nice cold bottle of Stolichnaya that was in his freezer and forget about the outside world.

Though the costume Smythe was wearing was quite amusing, still, seeing him in it was something Illya would have gladly forgone, and instead, be on a plane bound for the United States.

“So what’s the deal with THRUSH hovering around the I.R.A.”Napoleon asked, “I thought they were a pretty tight lot and suspicious of outsiders.”

“They are, it’s taken me over a year to gain their confidence; it’s some of the younger members who’ve  been approached. They’re not as patient and it seems THRUSH has been making quite exorbitant offers to fund some alternative ‘operations.’ If they get involved things will no doubt escalate to unthinkable proportions.   They don’t care about innocents, and the bombings in the North will increase exponentially. Sinn Féin is leaning towards the left as it is, and the paramilitary Irish Republican Army has become, shall we say more active, but if THRUSH gets their dirty hands into the mix, well...”

“I understand,” Napoleon listened carefully, while Illya remained silent with his arms crossed in front of his chest in a defensive posture. “What do you need us to do?”

“I don’t need you for anything...this was my assignment after all, and Beldon sending you is another slap in the face to me and everything I’ve done,” Smythe spoke bitterly, and stared at Illya while doing so.

“Well we are here whether you like it or not,” Illya finally spoke up, glaring back at the Englishman.

“When is your next meeting with the Sinn Féin people?” Napoleon asked.

“Tonight, the pageant is being used as the cover for them getting together.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, handing it to Solo. “Be there at seven, I’ll introduce you as an American backer who’s willing fund the military operations.  And you Kuryakin...well maybe it’s best you don’t show your Russkie face as that might blow your partner’s and my cover. These people are suspicious enough as it is, and you don’t exactly look Irish or American for that matter, at least Solo can pass.”

That didn’t sit well with either agent, but they both knew Smythe was right. It would be best if Illya maintained his distance, but at the same time keeping a vigilant eye for trouble.

The meeting in Limerick City was in a back room at a primary school located not far from St. John’s Castle on the Shannon river. It came and went without incident, with Napoleon going under the name of Seamus Vaughn. His anti-English diatribe and purported business savvy made a good impression with the membership.

 

The next step was to meet with the local members of the I.R.A. and sort out the ones who’d been approached by THRUSH in hopes they’d lead the agents to their whereabouts of a possible feathered nest.

This meeting was to take place in a more rural area, at one of the neolithic stone circles in County Limerick, similar to, Stonehenge but not quite as complicated.

Illya was forced to follow in a separate car, something else that didn’t sit well with him. He couldn’t be seen with Napoleon and Smythe, sans the ridiculous costume now, as the representatives of the Irish Republican Army were only made aware of Napoleon, known as Seamus Vaughn.

The trip to the meeting was 22 km away, about 45 minutes  south of Limerick City. and had it not been part of an assignment, it would have been a spectacular scenic drive. They arrived at the henge of Lough Gur, a neolithic circle consisting of 113 immense stones standing shoulder to shoulder against a massive bank of gravelly clay. It was the largest stone circle in Ireland.

As they walked inside it Napoleon felt a strange tingling sensation, it was sort of eerie, as if some sort of  presence surrounded them. He supposed it was the age of the place that had him somewhat awestruck. Illya had told him the Irish name for this place was _Lios na Grainsi_ ,  translated, it meant _‘Stones of the Sun_ ’ and was built around 2000 BC.

In the short time they had before heading out to this remote rendezvous, Illya had managed to glean some facts about it, as he always managed to do.

Though not quite as architecturally impressive as Stonehenge, the stones of Lough Gur, just as with the English grange circle, were also surmised to have been aligned with the rising sun at the Summer Solstice. On that morning the sun shone down directly in the center of the circle. The entrance stones were matched by a pair of equally impressive slabs on the southwest side, whose tops slope down towards each other to form a v-shape. It had been calculated that these stones and the entranceway were aligned with the sunset of the Festival of Samhain.  

Napoleon recalled that coincided with Halloween...when the veil between the world of the living and the dead was at it’s thinnest, something he knew without hearing it from partner’s endless list of facts.

Napoleon and Owen waited beside _Rannach Cruim Duibh,_ as they’d been instructed; it was a black stone and the largest one within the circle weighing over 60 tons, and supposedly aligned with the midsummer sunrise. Next to this huge stone stood a small stack of stones,  thought to represent Eithne, the Irish Persephone - corn child and concubine of the dark god Crom Dubh. Illya said, according to Irish mythology, the whole embanked enclosure was dug by Crom Dubh with his two pronged spear.

Outside of the circle Kuryakin was hiding, making himself invisible, hidden somewhere as a backup, just in case

Even though Sinn Féin, initially accepted Solo based on Smythe’s say so, the soldiers of the I.R.A. would be more suspicious and for the most part unpredictable.

Three young men dressed simply in leather jackets and worn dungarees appeared, an older fellow, perhaps in his thirties trailed behind them not, he was wearing a capiín, and Napoleon’s view of him was blocked by the others.

As soon as he saw the man’s face, Solo reacted.

“Shit,” he cursed, he’s John Kelly, a THRUSH agent, and knows me.”

“God dammit!” Smythe swore under his breath. “You’ve ruined a year's work." He began to back away from the American.

“Napoleon Solo?” What’s going on here O’Malley?” The Thrushman demanded of Owen. “He’s an UNCLE agent, ye _amadán fool!_ ”

They all pulled their weapons, four guns trained against Napoleon’s one. He turned, seeing Owen aiming a pistol at him as well.

“I was told he was a financial backer from the States, Mr. Kelly...Sinn Feín approved of him. That’s why this meetin’ was set up.” Smythe put on a thick Irish accent.

Owen stepped forward, pistol-whipping Solo. _“Feckin’ lyin’ bas-terd.”_  

Napoleon dropped to his knees as Smythe hadn’t really hit him that hard, and as part of the act, was forced to let his Special drop from his hand.

The others cocked their pistols ready to shoot Napoleon.

“I would not do that,” Illya called to them, still standing outside the circle; he aimed at them with his Special in one hand, and his backup pistol in the other.

“Toss your weapons now.”

“Ye may kill some of us, but yer friend here is a dead mon!” One called out to him.

Napoleon grabbed his weapon and fired, hitting the one who’d just threatened to kill him but with a with a sleep dart. Owen who was packing a gun with live ammo aimed at another. Before he or Illya could get off a shot, something strange happened. All the pistols within the stone circle flew into the air, not deliberately but seemingly of their own volition.

All six men were suddenly lifted up by some unseen force,  dangling them several feet from the ground, making them breathless and near paralyzed.

 _“Napoleon, Vytyanite vashi karmany bryuk naiznanku!”_ Illya called out in Russian.

Solo pulled his trouser pockets inside out as instructed, and instantly he dropped to the ground. He yelled to Owen to do the same, and the Englishman hit the soft green grass as well.

The two agents ran, joining Illya while the others remained suspended in the air, watching as the wind began to pick up and spin inside the circle, catching the four of them in it like a vortex.  In an instant it was gone along with them, and there was an eerie silence as the sun began to set.

The UNCLE agents were at a loss for words as to what happening.

“Illya how did you know about turning the trouser pockets inside out would help us?” Napoleon asked suspiciously.

“Irish lore says when one is caught in the grasp of those from the fairy realm, an article of clothing turned inside out frees you.”

“Seriously Illya, _fairies_?” Napoleon smirked, but then again he remembered Illya’s Russian beliefs.

”I read the locals would not come near this place after sunset because they believe it returns to the Fey and the otherworldly beings. The entities will tolerate visitors during the day, but at night _Lios na Grainsi_  belongs to them and that needs to be given respect. I suspect our friends were perceived as not being very mannerly.”

Napoleon still wasn’t quite sure about that, but at the moment there was no rational explanation for what they’d witnessed.

“How am I going to put this in my report?” Smythe interrupted, his face contorted with a scowl. “No one will believe this, and will think I’ve gone daft.”

“Just say the I.R.A. never showed up,” Illya suggested, still staring into the circle. “Your cover will be intact as well,  since that will be your story when you report back to Sinn Féin. Tell them the American backer was angry and decided to withdraw his support. As to the disappearance of the men... let THRUSH and the others worry about that.”

“I suppose,” Owen grudgingly agreed.

“Come on _tovarisch,_  let’s go home,” Napoleon said. “I think we’re done here. Unless these so-called fairies decide they don’t want Kelly and his lackeys and throw them back.”

“I have my doubts about that,” Illya replied. “I think their evil intentions have doomed them to an eternity in the otherworld, if there truly is such a place..”

Illya touched his hand to the black stone of _Cruim Duibh_ , feeling a vibration, and a sense of power to it. He suddenly felt the urge to speak to whatever it was that had intervened.

He concentrated for a moment, recalling the words in Irish, though it was a language he hadn’t studied, and knew little of it.  
  
_“Go raibh míle maith agat...thank you,_ ” he spoke softly.

A strange, ethereal mist appeared in the middle of the circle, and for the briefest moment, it seemed to gather into the form of a lithe figure of woman in white with long golden hair...

There was a strong gust at that exact moment, dissipating the vaporous vision but Illya swore he heard a voice speaking in Irish.

“ _Tá fáilte romhat,”_ meaning _you’re welcome.”_ The words were uttered, whispered on the breeze...

“Did you hear that _tovarisch_ , it sounded like a voice?” Napoleon halted in his tracks.

“I heard nothing,” the Russian answered cautiously.. “It was just the wind blowing among the stones...”

 


End file.
